Reprieve by Doug Mathewson (Appeared in the January 2010 Issue) Unexpected early dismissal from jury duty left me on my own midday midweek midtown used book store cafe near the court drew me in juror parking was free so I still had ten bucks clerk with race-car tattoos and vertical hair took six of my dollars for a poetry book and a scone scone was pear and almonds book was Richard Garcia both were great reading and eating in a sunny spot playing out my own alternate lives with sailor me lost at sea when cowboy me moved to town disco me died too young astronaut me who never took off royal me without a throne monastic me who suffered alone the afternoon was passing time to head home the evening was still open for us to decide who to be. Table For One by Doug Mathewson (Appeared in the January 2010 Issue) A table for one is just no fun. Traveling on business you learn. Tired of hotel restaurant’s snappy themes * Pumpernickel Pub * Captain Flapjack’s Galley * Blarney Stone Buffet Break the cycle I said to myself! Go to the nearby “Hard Rock Cafe.” Have pizza with Elvis and Elton, (Little Betty Boop won’t eat a thing!) Quickly seated, so few solo nook requests Would I have a monster bacon-burger with a Gene Simmons? Maybe a cherry-coke with Norma Jeane, (her skirt blowing wildly between breathless sips.) My table was between the restrooms, Behind the coat rack, but it had a theme! The obituary of Maureen Starkey, Liverpool hairdresser and first wife of Ringo Starr. Conversationally we were well matched.
by Doug Mathewson (Appeared in the January 2010 Issue) On the train, looking through an independent literary journal, I read a poem that made no sense to me at all. It was mostly about watching TV in the desert (I think). The train groaned and swayed along and my eyes were suddenly caught by the line “Alien Cave Woman Sex.” Absolutely no image came to mind, none. Nothing at all. In my best David Sedaris voice I thought, “Well, that’s interesting,” and read something else. But the words “Alien Cave Woman Sex” wouldn’t leave. Weeks later, I was reading a novel about a family of circus performers. They worked sideshows as “Living Oddities.” Their acts were not “Big Tent Material.” The narrator says to another character, “It’s like having a secret. Like having a bluebird tattooed under your pubic hair.” I can clearly see a small vivid cartoon bluebird, but not on anyone (anywhere!), just by itself. Another twist of words stuck in my head. Another unclaimed picture. Neither phrase would go away. They would not be banished. Why couldn’t I leave them somewhere? Casually work them into conversation and abandon them. Give them to a stranger. Let someone else deal with the mess. I didn’t make up either one. Why should I be stuck burdened for months with these two unspeakable clunkers? Finally, I wrote my way out of this putrid mess with a short story. A handsome and mysterious stranger is suddenly struck with appendicitis while waiting in line for the Alien Cave Woman Sex theme ride. While prepping him for surgery, Carnival Nurse Betty Brazen was surprised (and intrigued) to discover his secret tattoo. And quick as that, both phrases were gone! Vanquished forever! Freedom at last, because now, they have become yours. Enjoy.
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